Couple of typos here and there. Last line was the best. Freedom is a cage, and perhaps this cage is a skin. You can't live without skin, all your insides would fall out, or so the scientists say. maybe if we did without our bodies, our soul could drink deep the glow of the moon. Then again... maybe we don't have souls and we're only bodies waiting to turn to dust. Ashes to ashes... Dust to dust... From dust you came and to dust you shall return... Perhaps thats all that death is, a complete cessation of all function. Perhpas it's just my excessive boredrom that makes me think morbid things? Ah well, such things cannot be helped. It's funny though, if you think of all the trillions of people that came before, every little speck of everything must have been human once. Those cornflakes in your bowl thought of commiting suicide, and then they realized that there's something more in life. that dirt you pick from under your fingernails, once it hungered to be held and kept warm by a lover. That water that runs down your body in the shower, once it stood on ocean shores and wanted the breeze to make everything okay again. Every atom in you was once someone else. We are not in our own bodies, merely the recycled ones of others. I wonder what it would have been like to have ran through the first grass in the first body with the first toes. I wonder what it would have been like to turn the first tongue to the clouds and suck in wisps of rain, new and fresh. Our water is all old and stale, being recycled through countless bodies through countless eons. How wonderful that first drink of water must have tasted.

Have you ever watched water crystallize, or a snowflake melt? those infinitly small hydrogen bonds bending breaking and binding. Becoming a solid lattice work of clear ice and melting again into the clearest tears ever cried by an angel. It's beautiful, watching frost run up the sides of my car windows as I breathe inside. The fog smears up my vision and the crystals harden across my heart. Until it is spring and I am left empty again. So beautiful and so hated is this emptiness inside of me. It seems as if nothing but wandering and wondering will fill it, and even that cannot. Souls are restless things, they ache to be forever in liquid motion, yet forever in warm campfire arms.

And there are our memories. How do I know that everything I have ever done, was really real? I remember, but it does not feel as if I have ever experienced those things. The more we see and hold within, the more we have to rot and disease the beauty. Was there ever really beauty inside? if so, where'd it go? Our memories, what's to say that we didn't just appear in the world three days ago with a full set of memories and a web of people to complement our existence. Perhaps we're an alien experiment, perhaps we're all just God's rejected tests. I wonder sometimes if all the mumbo jumbo about heaven and hell is really worth listening too, maybe Earth is heaven or hell and there really is nothing to live for. what is the object to living? Where is the point in life? Where are we really going? Does it really matter?

firstly, thank you for ur review. i suppose some people do find it a little difficult to understand why there's so much fuss over the cartoons. i think it's because Islam is pretty closely related to many Muslims lives. anyway, great poem. i really like the beginning and the last three lines. brackets make it a little hard for me to read, cuz they interfere with the flow but i hav gotta say, it's a well-written piece so well done! keep writing,

Wow, you've written a lot. I remember reveiwing your first story :D At least I think it was your first here. Anyways, I really like the poem. I love how its not completely.. um... *thinks of how to describe it* The only way I can say it is, how its not completely put together. And I dont mean that in a bad way. I just like how you use a lot of short thoughts all put together. Its really cool.

OH, wow. Very well written! I love the style of this, you really captured my ADD attention span (which is incredibly hard to do!). It's almost like you're writing the poem and adding comments in there as well. In short: I love it. Definately Fav. material!

Also, thanks for commenting on "Off-White is a Color", I'm honored.

So now, I'm off to skip and read more! Well, maybe I won't skip... but, you get the idea!

I love this. Lots of complex ideas in this one, it seems to me. Do the lines 'those extra, unwanted pounds - the weight/ of it - waiting - and my blood comes late -/ straight up tell me (would you share this fate)/ with me?' refer to pregnancy, by any chance?

I particularly love the line, 'I’m not the type of girl who cries (when/ people are looking) - busy booking my pain into/ it’s appropriate time slot - it always showers (like rain/ when I’m not ready.' - very realistic; nice imagery. It really hit home.

'Freedom is a cage, my love, you/ can see out of all sides, but never above.' - Wow. Please don't stop writing.

I've read this poem several times now and I still don't know what to say.

The format is odd; although I think you've been experimenting with this kind of format lately. It doesn't even really look like a poem. It looks more like prose that for so some reason the writer kept putting on separate lines; kinda reads like that, too. And in no way do I mean that as a negative thing; it's just different; unique.

There are many individual things I like about this poem. Many of the lines were quite amazing ("so dusty that I blink rust" ... "or maybe a tragedy/(like trust) put too heavily on you like all/ those extra, unwanted pounds - the weight/of it - waiting - and my blood comes late -" ... "I want to spin. Binge on life until my insides/ churn again; burst" ... "Steadily unstable" ... "I dreamt the other night/ of you; so pure we fit each other’s holes like glue"). Many amazing metaphors, as well.

However, I'm not a huge fan of this poem. Perhaps because I don't fully understand it. But I think it's hard to fully grip the meaning with the distraction of so many parenthesis. I think you got carried away with the extra little things in parenthesis. At times they work, at times they become a nuisance.

You seem to be experimenting with your poetry lately. Or at least I think so.

But even though I wasn't a huge fan of this, I still like. It's especially enjoyable when you read it really fast. The rhythm adds to the emotion.